


Summer Nights

by papesdontsellthemselves



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Smoking, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 20:56:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19709284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papesdontsellthemselves/pseuds/papesdontsellthemselves
Summary: Race and Spot spend the summer together.





	Summer Nights

**Author's Note:**

> oof here's a summer fic hehe
> 
> TW: all of them are in the tags, but also- smoking, alcohol, abuse

**May**

“So where’d you get your fake ID?” Spot startles and chokes on the glass of Jack and Coke that he had been nursing. His throat burns as the vile liquid travels down his esophagus much faster than he would have liked and he looks with watery eyes at the person who had spoken to him. 

The guy is tall and somewhat lanky with blonde hair that seems to shoot out in various directions. His eyes glint behind a pair of black framed glasses and are highlighted by the bags that hang underneath them. His face is set in a permanent smirk, but there’s a tired essence about him.

“Excuse me?” Spot manages, trying to suppress the coughing fit that threatens to overtake him.

“There’s no way you’re older than me,” The guy scoffs, “So I’m wondering how you managed to get your drink.”

Spot’s gaze travels down to the cigarette perched between the guy’s fingers, nose scrunching as the smell hits him and his neck tingles with desire. 

The guy seems to notice his stare and he scoffs, “You want one?”

Spot shakes his head, “I shouldn’t.”

“But you do want one,” The guy says slowly, raising his eyebrows, “Don’t you?”

Spot gives him a half-hearted shrug, raising his glass to his lips and taking a small sip. 

The guy chuckles, “Suit yourself,” he takes a drag, settling on the stool next to Spot. Spot gives him a side glance as a bartender swoops past, asking to see the guy’s ID, before sliding a glass of rum and Sprite over to him.

“Where’d you get yours, then?” Spot asks, eyes flicking down to the glass as the guy snubs out his cigarette in one of the provided ashtrays.

“Hm?” The guy doesn’t seem too bothered as he knocks back half of his drink in a single gulp.

“Your fake ID.”

“Oh,” The guy says, swallowing, “A friend.”

“Oh,” Spot pauses circling his drink around for a few moments, peering at its contents, “I’m almost 21.”

The guy looks at him, eyebrows raised, “Yeah? How old are you, then?”

“Twenty,” Spot says, “My birthday’s in December.”

“You’re still like,” The guy furrows his eyebrows, thinking, “7 or so months out then.”

Spot shrugs, “Close enough. How old’re you?”

“I’m nineteen, turning twenty in August.”

“Cool,” They fall into an awkward silence, although the guy looks generally at ease. Spot clears his throat, motioning for the bartender to bring him another drink. Another glass is passed to him and he brings it to his lips, intoxication swirling in his gut.

“You live around here?” The guy asks.

Spot nods, “Just got home from school.”

“Ah,” The guy nods, understanding flashing across his face, “S’that why you’re here?”

“What?”

“Well the last semester just ended, like, last week,” The guy points out, “At least it did for me, so we haven’t been home very long. Are you already sick of it?”

“Sick of what?” Spot squints at the guy, dumbly.

“Being home,” The guy’s voice had turned from jovial to unsettlingly serious. He fixes Spot with a hard, knowing look.

Spot squares his shoulders, turning to face the guy all the way, “Why,” he demands, “are you?”

The guy seems to shrink in on himself a little bit and Spot feels a pang of guilt shoot through him before he remembers that the guy had started it.

“What’s your name?” The guy asks, shaking out his shoulders, his smirk returning to his face.

“I don’t even know you,” Spot says, warily.

“Hi,” The guy sticks out a hand, which Spot shakes briefly, “I’m Race. There, now you know me. What’s your name?”

“Spot.”

“‘Cause of your freckles?” The guy, Race, blurts out. His eyes widen and he backtracks, stuttering over his words, “Unless that’s not, like, a nickname and-”

Spot quirks an eyebrow, amusement playing on his lips, “No, you’re right,” Race’s shoulders sag in relief, “My old foster brother started calling me that when we moved in together.”

“Oh, nice.”

“Yeah,” Spot says, “Race?”

“Yeah?”

“No,” Spot shakes his head, “Why Race?”

“Oh,” Race blushes, “I don’t really know. My dad always told me I was racing to catch up with my head and it kinda stuck.”

Spot nods, tucking the information somewhere in the forefront of his mind, but not answering. The silence that stretches back out between them is welcome this time, a new sort of familiarity in it. Something dynamic in the pause strikes a chord with Spot, a rare understanding bounding between them. Race’s presence no longer renders a threat, although the mischief that seems to emanate off the other boy doesn’t go unnoticed. But as they sit there, idly sipping their drinks, Spot becomes increasingly aware that the mischief isn’t directed at him.

“Well,” Race grunts, sliding his glass away with a sigh and checking his watch, “I’m outta here,” he hops off his stool, briefly stretching his shoulders, “see you ‘round, Spottie,” he pauses for a moment, eyes boring into Spot intensely before lightening, “try not to commit arson in your home or something.”

Spot barks out a startled laugh, “Same to you, pal.”

But Race is already gone.

XXX

“I quit last year.”

Spot skips the pleasantries, gesturing to the cigarette that Race was currently working to light. His head is buzzing minutely, nothing to be entirely concerned about, but the alcohol didn’t fail to make its presence in his system known. He’d lasted a few days sober in his home before he gave into the seedy bar’s beckon call and strolled out the front door, looking for an escape. 

Spot couldn’t necessarily say he’s surprised to see Race back- he seems the type to frequent the place- but his presumptuous aura is absent as he startles, wide, red-rimmed eyes fixating on Spot’s.

Spot’s eyebrows furrow, but Race looks away before he can speak. 

“Fuck off, I don’t need shitty life advice right now,” He grumbles, pocketing his lighter and inhaling a tangy lungful of smoke.

Spot raises his hands in mock surrender, “No life advice, got it. You okay?”

Race scoffs, gaze still cast to the side. Spot can see the misty lamplight twinkling in his eyes, but the playful light that had been there last time is nowhere to be seen. It’s disconcerting.

“You wanna talk about it?” Spot asks casually, moving to lean against the damp, brick wall next to Race, “Believe it or not, I listen pretty well.”

Race doesn’t look at him as he takes a long drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a long, thin line, “I don’t even know you.”

“You know my name,” Spot smirks, “that was enough for you the other day.”

Race doesn’t seem to have an answer to that. He takes another drag, then holds his cigarette up to the light, studying it with a resentful eye. 

“I don’t like smoking,” He concedes, “It’s just the only thing that can ever-“

“-Keep you sane?” Spot guesses, knowing all too well what he meant. 

Race spares a glance at him, “Yeah.”

Spot skips letting him know that he gets it. Hell knows Race probably doesn’t want to hear it.

Instead he asks, “Does anything else keep you sane?”

Race scoffs again. He seems to do that a lot. Like the world is sad and laughable. It kind of is. 

“Uh,” Race scrunches up his nose, dropping his arm to his side, cigarette still secure between his nimble fingers, but momentarily forgotten, “Writing.” 

Spot carefully avoids letting his surprise slip, “What kind of writing?”

Race shrugs, fingers going loose. Spot eyes flick to the falling cigarette. Something sort of like pride wells in his chest. The hardest part is already done. Letting go. 

Not that quitting is going to be easy in any respect from here on out, but that initial admission to the notion is key. And it looks like Race has given in. 

“Anything. Stories, memoirs, thoughts,” He trails off for a moment, thinking, “just not poetry. I suck at poetry.”

“Poetry is overrated, anyway.”

A moment of silence. Race carefully stomps on the butt of the cigarette, “I guess.”

**June**

“I haven’t smoked for two weeks.”

Spot looks up from his bottle, something he could almost mistake for fondness swelling in his chest. Race slides onto the stool next to him, waving over the bartender and gesturing for a beer. The bartender hands it to him and sidles away.

Spot allows his gaze to scan over his new friend, noting that while he looks exhausted, there’s a healthier quality about him. The bags under his eyes have let up a bit and the sallow, stretched skin of his cheeks have become fuller- redder. He catches sight of the notebook that’s cradled protectively in Race’s grasp, but doesn’t say anything. If Race wants to show him, he will. 

“I’m proud of you,” Spot says genuinely, taking a sip of his beer and facing forward again.

The now expected silence settles over them again. 

“And I’ve been writing more again,” Race admits, sheepishly holding up the notebook. He delicately opens it, flipping through the pages slowly until he lands on one that has been bookmarked by an old movie ticket.

“I don’t usually let anyone see it, but…” He turns it towards Spot and thrusts it into his grasp, “If you want, uh, you can look.”

Realizing the underlying establishment of trust that accompanies the gesture, Spot takes the notebook, being careful to keep his expression judgement free. He reads the passage- a short, choppy piece that doesn’t entirely make sense to him. It’s a memory, that much is clear, but key details are missing. It’s more of an imagery work, bringing Spot to an old park somewhere in Race’s childhood. He isn’t sure exactly what importance or deep-felt symbolism the park may hold, but it’s obvious that it’s special to Race. And if it’s been keeping Race from smoking, well, that’s a win then. 

“That was brilliant, Race,” Spot says genuinely as he carefully closes the notebook and hands it back, “Has it helped?”

Race looks at the notebook, a small, half-smile on his face, “So far.”

XXX

“Wanna take a walk?”

This time, Spot isn’t surprised to see Race standing expectantly next to him. The notebook is back in his grip, but it seems to be more of a comforting presence than anything else. Race is fiddling with the movie ticket bookmark that peeks out the top, running his thumb over the worn, leather bounding.

“Sure,” Spot answers before he can give too much thought to the notion.

Race’s face breaks into a wide grin and Spot finds himself mirroring it.

“Awesome, c’mon,” Race says, taking the glass out of Spot’s grip and replacing it with his hand. 

He pulls Spot out of the bar and doesn’t let go as he leads him down the street. It’s decently late and as they venture further away from town and closer to the surrounding neighborhoods, the company of people surrounding them ceases. They take a sudden turn into a little cul-de-sac and Race slows their pace as they cross to the other side of the street. In front of them sits a small playground. It looks old. Everything is made of wood or metal and Spot can see pieces of paint chipping off the sets.

“Oh,” Spot murmurs, mind venturing to the passage Race had shown him the other day.

“Yeah,” Race says, leading Spot to the swingset and nodding for him to perch on one of the swings. They sit, rocking back and forth in companionable quiet, “Why did you decide to quit?” Race asks after a moment.

Spot thinks for a moment, tilting his head to look at Race. Race is watching him intently.

“I was tired of not being in control,” Spot says, honestly, “I had lost my mom and my dad was being shitty and so I started smoking to help ease off the edge, but after a while it just made me feel more out of control. So, I quit.”

Race hums, eyes shifting to his own hand clasped around the chain of the swing, “Was it easy?”

Spot watches him fidget with the chain for a moment, “Is it easy?” 

Race looks back at him, “No.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

“But it can be done?”

Spot smirks, “I quit, didn’t I?”

Race nods and Spot allows himself to smile, “Then there’s your answer.”

XXX

“I like you, Spot.”

Spot blinks, turning his head to look at Race. They’re back at the park, this time in the early morning. He wasn’t sure when they’d gotten so close, but sometime between the last park visit and now, phone numbers had been exchanged and bonds tied tighter. What they seemed to have was nice. Never had Spot felt so real and raw with a person before, but in the span of a few weeks, Race had wormed himself into his life. They didn’t talk very often about themselves, but the understanding of each other they seemed to have meant they didn’t have to. They just got it.

“I like you, too, Race,” Spot says, bemused.

“No, like, I _like_ you,” Race holds eye contact and Spot feels his stomach flip. Race’s bluntness has always impressed Spot and he doesn’t think he’ll ever truly get used to it.

“Oh,” Is all he can think to say. It isn’t that he doesn’t like Race back, it’s just that he hasn’t given his feelings much thought. He’s mostly just run with what feels good in the moment. 

“I think I want to kiss you,” Race continues, gaze never wavering.

Spot feels his heart leap to his throat and he swallows, “Okay,” he manages.

Race raises an eyebrow, “Okay okay? Or just...okay.”

Spot nods, “Okay okay.”

Race smiles and stands from his swing, closing the short distance between them until he’s directly in front of him. He grips one of the chain handles and rests his other hand on the side of Spot’s face. Spot stares at him, memorizing the movements. His own hand finds the taller boy’s hip.

Nothing happens for a moment, then Race leans down, capturing his mouth in a tentative kiss. Spot hums a little and it’s all Race needs to deepen the kiss. They move in tandem, feeling out each other’s presence for what could be an eternity. Then, Race pulls back.

Their foreheads stay pressed together and Spot smiles.

“Thank you,” Race breathes.

“For what?” Spot whispers back.

Race shrugs, “For being here.”

“Thank you, too.”

**July**

“Why do you like the park so much?” Spot asks one day as they walk away from the bar. He’s always wondered, but asking seemed too personal. But now that whatever they have has been solidified, it seems appropriate.

Race doesn’t answer immediately. Spot didn’t expect him to.

“Went there a lot as a kid,” Race says, “always had been an escape. Still is.”

Spot nods, “Neat.”

Race laughs, squeezing their conjoined hands, “Neat? What are you, 50?”

“Maybe,” Spot teases, eyes crinkling as he looks up at Race, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Ewww,” Race whines, scrunching up his nose, “I do not want to think about kissing on an old man.”

“You brought it on yourself, pal,” Spot says, shaking his head.

“I know, but you- ugh, nevermind.”

They take their usual seats on the swings, hands still clasped together between them. Spot smiles. He’s happy.

XXX

The first setback happens a month after Race initially pledges to quit. Spot had been expecting this. Granted, lasting out a month without a cig was incredibly impressive, but it still wasn’t a surprise when Spot’s phone rang on a Tuesday afternoon.

He furrows his eyebrows, staring for a moment at Race’s contact photo before sliding his thumb across the screen and lifting his phone to his ear.

“Race?” He sits up when he hears a jagged cough on the other end, “Hello?”

“Spot,” Race rasps. He isn’t crying, at least, Spot can’t hear it in his voice, but he sounds miserable, “I fucked up.”

Spot purses his lips. He knows what he’s talking about- it’s obvious enough- but he wants Race to say it. _Needs_ to have him talk it out.

“What happened?” He asks, already tucking his phone between his ear and shoulder and pulling on his shoes. 

“I smoked,” Race says. His tone is dull, plain. He sounds utterly defeated.

“Did something happen? Or was it just urges, or-”

“My uncle hit me.”

“Goddamnit,”Spot paused in tying his shoes, taking a moment to draw in a measured breath. Race didn’t talk much about his home-life, but Spot knew the basics. He knew that his parents had passed in a car crash and Race had been sent to live with his aunt and uncle. He knew that things had been good at first, but quickly physical abuse had reared its ugly head and Race was subject to things that no kid should know. He didn’t know much, but he knew enough to make his blood boil.

“Sorry,” Race’s voice was still lifeless and Spot almost wished that he were crying. This was just plain scary.

“I’m not mad,” Spot quickly reassures him, “I’m actually proud that you got this far without a smoke. I’m coming, hang tight.”

“I’m at the park,” Race says, “In case you didn’t figure that already.”

Spot had figured, but he bites his tongue, “thanks, don’t go anywhere.”

He spots Race immediately, sitting on top of the monkey bars instead of the swings. His head is turned outward, glazed eyes staring at the treetops. There’s a nasty bruise forming on his left cheekbone, still red and glaring. Spot’s shoulders sag. 

“Hey,” He calls carefully, not wanting to startle Race into falling. Something tells him that wouldn’t be especially appreciated right now.

Surprisingly, Race turns towards him. Spot had speculated that it would take a little coaxing to pull him out of his mind.

“Hey,” Race calls back. His voice is scratchy and Spot vaguely wonders how many cigarettes he’s had. Though, looking closer, there’s no sign of a pack or any stubs on the ground.

“I threw them in the forest,” Race mumbles, gesturing aimlessly, “S’why you can’t see any. I didn’t wanna see any.”

Spot raises his eyebrows. He’s got a million questions, a million concerns, but he elects to simply say, “I’m proud of you for throwing them. How many did you have?”

“Only two,” Race watches him as he climbs up next to him, settling down on one of the bars, “only two…”

“That’s...not as bad as I thought,” Spot admits, “good job.”

Race scoffs, “Don’t praise me for messing up.”

“I’m not,” Spot says firmly, tapping his chin to get him to look at him “I’m praising you for realizing that it was a mistake and actively preventing yourself from having another. I couldn’t even do that when I was tryna quit.”

“Oh,” Race looks down at his hands and Spot reaches out to grab one, “Okay.”

“Lemme see,” Spot says gently, lifting a careful hand as Race turns his head to the side, allowing for a full view of the abrasion. Spot gingerly runs a finger over it, immediately stopping when Race winces, “Hurts still?”

Race nods, “He got me good.”

“Wanna talk about what happened?” It was probably a ‘no’, but Spot always offered, anyway. Just to let Race know that he could.

“No,” Race mumbles.

“Alright,” _Yep_ , as predicted, “Let’s get you some ice.”

He climbs down, waiting closeby to help Race if he needs it. A moment later, they’re walking towards town, hands linked together in Spot’s jacket pocket.

**August**

“Hey, happy birthday,” Spot greets Race with a smile, handing him a small parcel. Race looks up at him from where he’s sitting at the swing and Spot is instantly reminded of their first kiss. His smile grows.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Race says, biting his lip to hold back a smile of his own.

“Yeah, I did,” Spot rolls his eyes, stepping forward so that Race’s knees were resting against his shins, “Open it.”

Race blushes a little, bowing his head as he unwraps the gift. Spot watches as his fingers slip underneath the tape, carefully unsticking each fold. It always baffled Spot how meticulous Race is. He emanates such boisterous chaos that Spot would have never pegged him for the gentle type. But with Race, the surprises never really stopped.

“Fuck,” Race breathes, jaw going slack as he takes the new notebook out of the paper. It’s a little bigger than the one he has at home and in much better shape. He holds it to his nose, closing his eyes as he notes that the leather smells real, “this is beautiful, Spot.”

Spot’s grin turns into something a little more gentle, “I knew you were running out of pages in your other one, so I thought…” Spot takes Race in as he opens the notebook, running the pads of his fingers over the crisp, yellow pages, “Oh and here,” Spot digs into his pocket and pulls out a small pack of .5 mm pens, “these might be a little more fun to write with than a mechanical pencil.”

Race takes the pack and glances up at Spot before cracking open the lid. He takes one out and uncaps it with his teeth, focusing intently on his paper as he writes out a short message. His handwriting is surprisingly good and looks even better in the fine, black ink. He tears out the paper and hands it to Spot.

Spot eyes him amusedly before reading the message,

_Much love for you...thank you_

Spot smiles, as Race pulls him down by the front of his shirt, “I love you, too,” he mumbles, already closing his eyes. Their lips fit together like puzzle pieces.

XXX

Spot looks around at the boxes in his room, taking a deep breath as he goes over a mental checklist of anything he might have missed. 

“You all packed?” Race asks, wrapping his arms around Spot’s waist from behind. He tucks his chin on Spot’s shoulder, pressing a light kiss to his pulse point.

“I’m 99 percent sure,” Spot says, turning to wrap his own arms around Race.

“Good,” Race leans down, pecking a kiss to the tip of his nose, “I’m gonna miss you.”

“S’just college Racer,” Spot says, kissing his chin, “We’ll both be back for Fall and Winter break and shit.”

Race scrunches his nose, an impressive pout forming on his face, “But that’s so long, Spottie,” he whines.

Spot chuckles, “I know, I’m sad, too.”

“One day,” Race’s pout melts away, a smirk spreading across his lips instead, “I’m gonna marry you and college or anything can suck my dick.”

Spot laughs loudly, head tilting back, “You do that.”

Race pulls him back in, capturing him once more in a kiss, “Oh, I will.”

**6 Years Later**

“Racer, I got the garlic!” 

Spot pushes the door to their apartment closed with his foot, holding the grocery bags above his head as their dog, Linda, bounds up to him.

“Hey, hey, no, Linda- down, babygirl! This food isn’t for you,” He transfers the bags to one hand and shoves Linda off with the other.

“Thank god,” Race pokes his head out of the kitchen, “I was worried that this chicken would have to go herbless and our taste buds would suffer tragically.”

Spot shakes his head, plucking the garlic pod out of the bag and tossing it to his husband, “Drama queen.”

He puts the groceries away, then joins Race at the stove.

“This all smells really good,” Spot says, dipping a finger in whatever pasta sauce Race is making.

“Hey, get your fucking fingers out of my sauce,” Race chides, hitting Spot lightly with a wooden spoon and getting pasta water on the sleeve of his henley.

“Asshole,” Spot bites, but there’s no real malice behind it.

“Mmm, you love me,” Race says, turning back to one of the pots.

Spot gently grabs his elbow, turning him and leaning up to kiss him, “Indeed I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, chiefs  
> tumblr: papesdontsellthemselves


End file.
